


Faggot

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Drama, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-14
Updated: 2005-12-14
Packaged: 2018-11-10 16:11:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11130228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: Ray is sick of it.





	Faggot

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

Faggot

## Faggot

  
by Marcella Polman  


Disclaimer: This is not an original story. The characters starring belong to a bunch of people who have my eternal gratitude. 

Author's Notes: Many thanks to Sophia Moon who warmed my cold feet so that I could post this fic.   


Story Notes: This story is inspired by Sophia Moon who said on Serge that "In the hands of a competent writer virtually everything is true, even the things you would never have believed." I took this as a personal challenge and decided to write a Fraser/Vecchio. To me this is an unlikely pairing, because I don't like Vecchio very much (he strikes me as homophobic and would be macho, really not my kind of guy). So to do a respectful, plausible, happy ending BF/RV would be really something. At least to me. If you are not too put off by this note and still want to read the story, please let me know if you think I succeeded.

* * *

He couldn't eat. He really couldn't. Not even the look in his mother's eyes, usually capable of making him eat more than he actually needed, could cause him to pick up his knife and fork. Regardless of the fact that there was gnocchi and that the bowl was placed strategically close to his plate.  
  
"Raimundo," his mother said softly. "Caro, are you all right?"  
  
God, he would have given anything to be able to tell her that he was, and not only to stop her from worrying - that was not his highest priority right now. If he could let her believe that nothing was wrong, then maybe he could manage to convince himself that the world hadn't collapsed less than an hour ago.  
  
But he knew it was no use to try. He felt miserable - far beyond miserable in fact. He was sweating and he had to concentrate hard not to vomit. He knew it showed.  
  
"I'm not feeling too well," he said. "I think I'd better go to my room."  
  
There were no protests, so he really must look awful. On the plus side (crazy that he was able to think of this mess as having a plus side) maybe this caused the others to believe that he was truly ill. Maria and Tony were easy to deceive. He wasn't so sure about Ma and Francesca though.  
  
To be in his room was better as well as worse than being at the dinner table. It was better in that he didn't have to worry about the impression he made on his family; that he could puke in private if he felt the urge to do so (which he didn't - so far). It was worse because now that he was alone, there was no avoiding thinking about _why_ he was feeling so miserable. And he really didn't want to go there; he knew it would cause a panic attack.  
  
Fraser.   
  
God, now he'd done it. The room around him started to spin, and he swayed to the sink and threw up. He waited until his stomach seemed to have calmed down, then rinsed the sink and his mouth. He let the cool water run over his wrists. The mirror showed that he looked really, really awful. He took a couple of deep breaths.  
  
Fraser.  
  
This time, the room kept itself in place, and so did his stomach. He was still sweating though, and he was feeling cold and shaky. This wasn't going to go away. Everything had changed. His entire view on Fraser had changed.  
  
Goddammit.  
  
About seventy-five minutes ago, he had been reasonably happy. He was an above average detective (or he thought so himself) and his freaky, intelligent Canadian partner helped a great deal in increasing his crime solving rate to even higher levels. Although the Mountie was nuts and annoyed the hell out of him most of the time, working closely together for nearly a year had caused Ray to consider his partner to be his best friend as well. The fact being that cops didn't have much of a private life it was only obvious that he spent what little spare time he had with Fraser.   
  
So there had been nothing uncommon about him inviting the Mountie to have dinner at the Vecchio house tonight. Previous invitations Fraser had kindly accepted, even if they were given at very short notice. Every time, Ma Vecchio had been delighted. She insisted that there always was enough food to feed an unexpected guest, especially a "giovane piacevole" like "Benito".  
  
But tonight Fraser had declined, saying that he would be otherwise engaged.  
  
If this had caused Ray to feel a flare of jealousy (and he wasn't sure that it had) it would have been because Fraser suddenly seemed to have a social life apart from him. But everything had still been all right at that point really. In fact, Ray had given his partner a wicked grin and said, "She hot?" Because, come on, Fraser might keep this wall between himself and women and he might maintain it with Mountie dedication, but the number of girls trying to knock it down was vast, and it was inevitable that even Fraser would cave in eventually.  
  
His partner had looked puzzled though. "She? Oh no, Ray. My appointment of this evening doesn't involve a woman."  
  
Ray recalled that he had felt a dark feeling starting in the pit of his stomach. It was vague, but it had been unmistakable. "Then who ...?" He hadn't finished his sentence, fearing the answer for some reason.  
  
"Ah. Do you remember Del Porter?"  
  
Indeed, Ray did. Del's father was the wheelman of the Donnelly brothers' getaway car when they had been robbing a bank at Christmas. The man had attempted to double-cross his partners, knowing that he couldn't possibly pull it off and live. He had been willing to die leaving Del the money from the robbery, and the boy had been in the middle of it all. Fortunately it had ended reasonably well. William Porter got to do some time in jail of course, but he was alive, and so was Del. So what was going on?  
  
He worried for the kid. And at the same time he felt strangely relieved that it was only Del who Fraser would see tonight.  
  
"Is he in trouble again?" he asked.  
  
"No Ray, not as such. Del isn't in any danger. Well, except of falling victim to depression perhaps."  
  
"Then what's wrong with him?"  
  
"I'm not sure I'm entitled to tell you, Ray."  
  
Oh, come on, not this again. "Fraser."  
  
"I'm serious, Ray. I'm afraid it would be a betrayal of trust if I told you."  
  
"Tell me, Benny," Ray had said. He'd known it would do the trick. It wasn't a threat and it wasn't a plea, it was something in between. Over the course of time he had perfected the tone, and Fraser couldn't resist it. It worked on him like a truth serum. Granted, almost anything worked like a truth serum on the Mountie, but The Tone was no exception. Fraser would spill, no doubt about that.  
  
And he did, in his own rather cryptic way.  
  
"Well, recently Del discovered that he has inclinations which he cannot easily accept."  
  
The Riv had swayed for a moment before Ray gripped the wheel tightly to steady the car. Fraser-speak was a weird language, but he had heard it enough to be able to translate. If Fraser mentioned inclinations, he really meant perversions. And one in particular sprang to Ray's mind. He swallowed. "Is he gay?"  
  
"Well, no, he's all but cheerful at the moment, I'm afraid," Fraser had said, pulling the Clueless Mountie routine.   
  
Great timing. Not. "Fraser."   
  
He didn't hit The Tone exactly - there was too much exasperation in it - but it worked anyway.  
  
"I'm reluctant to tell you this Ray, but if you are referring to the more modern connotation of the word, then the answer to your question would be yes, Del is indeed homosexual."  
  
The Riv had swayed once more. The dark feeling in Ray's stomach presented itself again and spread rapidly. Del Porter was gay. He had a date with Fraser tonight. Was there a connection? Did he really want to know?  
  
He had clenched his jaws, concentrated on the road and tried hard to think. If it turned out that Fraser was gay, he would end their partnership immediately. He would even request a transfer to Florida if necessary. But Fraser couldn't be like that. He didn't look queer. Okay, he did, but it wasn't that kind of queer. Women were all over the Mountie, and they wouldn't be if he was gay, would they? It wouldn't be natural. On the other hand, Fraser never responded as if he liked the attention, he didn't seem to know how to react. But a couple of months ago he had mentioned that there had been a woman in his life once. So he couldn't be gay. But if he wasn't, then why did he have a date with Del tonight?  
  
He needed to know. The thought of Fraser being a faggot made him sick, but he had to know.  
  
"So ... you and Del involved?" he had asked as matter-of-factly as he could muster.  
  
"Well, if my interpretation of your question is correct and if you're inquiring whether Del and I are lovers, then my answer is, no, Ray, we are not."  
  
A tremendous wave of relief had washed over him. Fraser wasn't gay. He was only talking to Del because the boy had trouble accepting the fact that he was queer. And this made sense, because when it came to human nature, Fraser was the most open-minded and unprejudiced guy Ray had ever met. In fact, he greatly overdid the whole "equal rights for everybody" thing, telling Ray "not to condemn the man, but his actions" every time they booked a goon. It was completely useless advice of course. Crimes were committed by bad guys and bad guys were bad guys because of the crimes they committed. It was pointless to make a distinction.  
  
As for gays, they were disgusting because the way they behaved was disgusting. Homosexuality wasn't considered a crime anymore - and Ray wasn't stupid, he understood the difference between a crime and a sexual activity (unless there were children or minors involved or non-consenting partners) - but that didn't mean it repulsed him any less than a crime did. According to him, gays were an insult to human sexuality as it was meant to be.  
  
"So tonight you're going to condemn the actions but not the man, aren't you, Fraser?" he had said.  
  
Fraser looked puzzled. "Well, Ray, I'm not certain that I understand what you are saying exactly. Del isn't ready to allow himself any "actions" yet, but I sincerely hope that he will be some day."  
  
"You _hope_ that he will have sex with another man?" Ray had exclaimed.  
  
"If it is of his own free will, then I certainly do."  
  
"Why?" Stupid question maybe, but it was beyond him why a straight man, even a straight Canadian Mountie, would hope for something like that.  
  
"Because genuine mutual attraction - true love if one is lucky - is a wonderful thing, Ray. When it happens to people who are of the same sex it's no less wondrous than when it occurs between a man and a woman."  
  
But it was! And it had pissed him off to hear Fraser saying otherwise.  
  
"Is this the official RCMP standpoint on true love?" he spat out.  
  
"No Ray, it's my opinion."   
  
Something about Fraser's tone had made the dark feeling in Ray's stomach return full-force. Fraser spoke softly, he sounded hurt, like this really meant something to him personally. Oh God, no.  
  
He had gripped the stirring wheel hard. "Fraser." He had to know. He feared his partner's response more than anything, but he couldn't leave it at this. Nearly choking on the words, he said, "Are you gay, Fraser?"  
  
The silence that followed had turned him cold. Fraser saying, "Are you sure you want to know, Ray?" had made him feel even colder.  
  
"Yes," he had whispered, knowing they had reached a point of no return.  
  
"Strictly speaking I'm not homosexual, as there has been a woman whom I loved passionately," Fraser said. "But where attraction to other men is concerned, yes, I've felt and acted upon it, though not often. I suppose it would be correct to say that I am bisexual."  
  
Ray had had braced himself for this, and he was able to pull the Riv to the curb surprisingly calmly before the feelings of anger, disgust and shock took hold and tried to suffocate him. He fought for breath, and when he felt he could, he snarled, "Get out of the car."  
  
"Yes, Ray," Fraser said, but he didn't prepare to leave. Instead he had asked, "Are you all right?"  
  
"I'm fine," Ray snapped. "Piss off, Fraser. Go fuck your boyfriend."  
  
This was uncalled for. Even at a time like this, part of his brain signaled that this was too rude a thing to say to Fraser. It actually made him feel even angrier.  
  
"As I already told you, Ray," Fraser said very dispassionately, "Del and I aren't lovers. And I sincerely doubt that we ever will be."  
  
"Why? You're both gay." (Jesus, did he really want to start a discussion about this with Fraser?)  
  
"It's a regrettable but still rather common misconception among heterosexuals that homosexual individuals aren't selective in their choice of mate," Fraser said. "But they are, Ray. I assure you that the need to find somebody special, a life partner if you wish, isn't less prevalent among homosexuals than it is among what you would call "straight" people."  
  
Ray did _not_ want to think about the implication, and yet he couldn't avoid it. He would have thought that, except for the fact of being perverts, gays were eager to jump each other's bones because they were a minority and beggars couldn't be choosers. If this wasn't true, it meant that they were more numerous than he cared to assume. Jesus. Fuck.  
  
"I'm sorry to have upset you, Ray," Fraser said. "Diefenbaker and I will walk the remaining distance to the apartment. Thank you for the ride." He got out, opening the door for the wolf. Dief hopped out on the pavement, and Fraser stuck his head back in the car. "Goodbye, Ray."   
  
There was a rather definite ring to it.  
  
And Ray had been fine with that really. The Riv had jumped forward as he stepped on the gas and steered the car to the road.  
  
He drove fast. It was the only way to hold the growing ball of panic in his stomach in check. The pounding of his heart was keeping up nicely with the speed of the car. By the time he arrived home, he had been sweating, out of breath, and feeling sick.  
  
As he was now. God, what a mess.  
  
He felt restless, but decided to get into bed anyway. Any moment now, one of the Vecchio women would come upstairs to check on him. Most likely Frannie. He had to appear truly ill to avoid questions.  
  
He put his pajamas on. He usually slept in the nude, except when he was ill. Besides, tonight he felt he couldn't bear to touch naked skin, even if it was his own.  
  
He was barely lying under the covers when Francesca knocked on his door and entered before he got the chance to say she could.  
  
"How are you feeling?" she inquired.  
  
"Not too well. Could you please leave?"  
  
Wrong response. She frowned. "You have me worrying here, bro. I was expecting you to make a scene, acting all weak and miserable, like you macho guys are prone to do when you have so much as the tiniest cold. This seems to be more serious though. Do you have a fever?"  
  
"Haven't checked."  
  
"Hmm." She stepped closer and put a hand on his forehead, her face adopting what she obviously thought was a professional nurse's expression. "You do feel clammy. Are you planning on calling in sick tomorrow?"  
  
"I think so."  
  
"Good." She nodded. "I'll drop by at the station and notify Lieutenant Welsh."  
  
"Thanks, Frannie."  
  
She crossed her eyes. "You rest, bro. If you get any more grateful, I'm going to call an ambulance."  
  
After she had left, he lay awake for a very long time. When his mother came in to check on him, he pretended to be asleep. Then he resumed thinking again, the same thought he had mulled over about a thousand times already this very evening. His world was shattered. It was Fraser's fault. Because the Mountie was a faggot.  
  
***  
  
Sounds of people getting up woke him the next morning. He instantly recalled his shattered world and the reason for it, but the rage he expected to follow didn't come. Something had changed overnight. It wasn't that the problem had decreased in magnitude. He didn't feel better, just less angry, less disgusted, more ... sad. And lost.  
  
The thought of not seeing Fraser anymore brought a lump in his throat. And it caused a jolt of panic, as he realized that without Fraser he would lose his sense of being.  
  
He breathed the sudden nausea away before he allowed himself to remember when he had had a similar feeling: three years ago, when Ange had announced that they were through and that she would file for divorce. Oh, God. He wasn't ready to face the possible implications. Fortunately, he managed to fall asleep again.  
  
He woke when his mother brought him some toast. Which he ate, just to please her. Afterwards he felt a little better, and he decided on taking a quick shower.  
  
He didn't look in the mirror. Usually he was vain - he knew he was - but today he very much was not. He put a bath robe on and returned to his room, sitting down in the rocking chair.  
  
He wasn't a coward. He could do this.  
  
Fraser. Fraser was gay. If he concentrated on staying calm and looked behind the disgust, the fear, the sadness this caused, then what did he see?  
  
He'd known disgust before, in the line of duty. Crimes involving children, badly mutilated bodies, victims having died of torture, they had made him want to puke his guts out and severely affected his sense of being. He knew the feeling of hopelessness when confronted with the evidence of what people could do to others. But every time, the despair had been followed by an enhanced sense of purpose, by the notion that he was a cop _because_ of crimes like these, that it was his job to prevent them from happening again, and to bring the assholes who committed them to justice.  
  
Disgust alone didn't explain what he was experiencing now. It was more personal.  
  
Fraser's declaration had shattered his world like Ange's had three years ago. Ray could blink, swallow, breathe deeply, rock the chair he was sitting in, but he couldn't avoid looking at what this meant. What Fraser meant to him. In magnitude and nature. Oh, God.  
  
He never had labeled it attraction, and he wasn't eager to do so now, but it did shed a new light on a few things he hadn't been able to explain completely before. The little shock with which his mood lightened every morning when he first saw Fraser. (It was perfectly normal for a man to be pleased to see his best friend of course, but _that_ pleased? And on a daily basis?) The anger he felt towards the numerous women who got in Fraser's personal space. (It wasn't suspicious maybe that a vain Italian Chicago cop envied his freakish Canadian Mountie partner for getting all the female attention, but wasn't it cause for wonder when said cop's annoyance was entirely directed at the women and not at the Mountie? When it was strongest when it concerned the cop's sister? Sometimes he found it almost impossible not to snatch Frannie away from Fraser when she was looking at him with that "fuck me" look in her eyes and voicing her desire loud and clear - not by using that exact words, but by some barely disguised alternatives. Time after time he let out a breath of relief when Fraser stepped back and said something very polite and distant to Francesca.)  
  
But he wasn't a pervert. Years ago, when he was still in high school, there had been talk of "experiments". He had been shocked and disgusted, and he had consistently avoided listening to peers discussing the subject of who fooled around with whom. He couldn't bear even the briefest thought of guys doing _that_ with other guys. It made him sick, and it always had since.   
  
He had never touched a man in any other than entirely straight way. He had never felt the desire to do so. But when he forced himself to look at it - which he did now, with closed eyes and ragged breath - maybe the vehemence of his reaction to what he considered "perverse" was telling. Maybe his disgust had served the purpose of keeping him away from the darkness that would have pulled him in if he had relaxed.  
  
It rattled him to realize this, but lightning didn't strike, nor did a heart-attack take him. He was still breathing. And missing Fraser.  
  
God, the things he'd said yesterday. Requesting a transfer to Florida (which he no longer wished to do) would be totally redundant. Fraser would have asked for relocation to Tuktoyaktuk first thing in the morning.  
  
Or maybe he wouldn't have. Maybe there still was a chance to apologize.  
  
He pictured a scene - words, a tone of voice, and Fraser's reaction. He stopped. Thinking of Fraser - his facial expression, the look in his eyes, the way he would sound - was not a good idea. It invoked emotions he wasn't ready to explore. He had done enough self-confrontation today. He'd allow himself to decide to try and apologize to Fraser tomorrow and leave it at that, for now.  
  
He turned on the television and watched some cartoons, none of which were able to keep him from thinking about Fraser. In a rather disturbing way.   
  
He had never thought about the way Fraser looked before. (Well, he had noticed with surprise that Fraser could wear those ridiculous serge and jodhpurs without leaving a ridiculous impression. And he had at some point arrived at the conclusion that Fraser "must be" attractive, as the guy was a chick magnet if ever there was one.) Now, watching Jerry pissing off Tom, his thoughts kept returning to Fraser in a way that reminded him of how he had obsessed about Ange, and Vicky before her and about Annie and Linda when he was in high school. Fraser looked very different from them, of course, but he did have a body - broad and solid. And he did have a face that was as beautiful as those of the women Ray had loved before. With eyes that were grey or blue, depending on the light. And with ...  
  
God, he didn't want to do this. And he didn't have to. He might currently be confused about the way he felt about his partner, but he surely would be able to overcome these disturbing feelings. He never before had had thoughts about a man that were cause for concern. He had loved four women with a passion that didn't cast any doubt on how "real" his feelings were. He could love a woman again.  
  
It certainly helped that this "thing" he appeared to have for Fraser wasn't mutual. Fraser might be gay, but he had never looked at or touched Ray in a way that wasn't fitting a partner and a best friend. Fraser wasn't interested in him like that. He had told Ray that gays were just as selective in their choice of significant other as straights were. And God knew that Fraser was picky.  
  
It was a relief, really. (Maybe just not at much as it should have been.)  
  
He turned off the television. Trying to think of a more effective means of distraction, he dismissed the thought of going downstairs. His mother was a very perceptive woman, especially where her children were concerned. Besides that, her interrogation techniques were magnificent. She should apply at the 2-7 if there was a vacancy, in fact. He really didn't need her starting to wonder.  
  
He changed his sheets, put on a clean pair of pajamas, and ate the sandwiches his mother made him, telling her he was feeling better already.   
  
"Good," she said, in the same tone Fraser used when he was saying "ah" or "mmm"; the one that revealed nothing about the speaker's thoughts.   
  
Shit. He mustn't think of Fraser in front of his mother.  
  
After she left, he started to reread Stephen King's Misery. But in his current state he found it boring, so he put it away and fell asleep not long after.  
  
He awoke by the sounds of his sisters and brother in law returning from work. He contemplated joining them downstairs, but hesitated and dismissed the idea, afraid that they would be able to read his mind, and that they would be shocked at what they found.   
  
The noises ceased - they were all in the living room now. For a while, he concentrated on listening to the sounds that weren't really there, willing his restlessness away.   
  
It was no use. His bed felt overly warm, the sheets he had changed just a few hours ago seemed dirty already. Maybe he should join his family after all. He had pretended to be what he was not several times before. Why would something he was capable of doing in the line of duty be impossible when it was for personal reasons?  
  
He was about to push the covers away when the bell rang. His heartbeat sped up even before Francesca answered the door and uttered a cry of joy.  
  
Oh God. Oh God. Oh God, no.  
  
Footsteps were nearing on the stairs. There was a knock on his door.  
  
"Yes," he pronounced with difficulty.  
  
"Hello, Ray," Fraser said.  
  
It was worse, way worse, than he had imagined it to be; to see Fraser for the first time after what had happened yesterday, after what he'd come to realize.  
  
It didn't help that the Mountie was casually dressed. With the serge and jodhpurs, or with the other RCMP stuff, and with the Stetson, he looked like an officer. Ray could have handled a look like that (he thought). But Fraser wasn't wearing a hat right now, just a pair of jeans (rather tight ones) and a lumberjack shirt. He looked like a man, and Ray really didn't need the confrontation with the effect the view of a man - of Fraser - could have on him.  
  
"If my presence displeases you, Ray, then I'll go in an instant," his (former?) partner was saying.  
  
"No." He didn't want to reject Fraser. Not again. He needed to make amends. The Mountie visiting him probably meant he thought their partnership could be saved. He had to try. "Stay. Take a seat."  
  
Fraser lingered by the end of the bed. "I brought you something."   
  
Yeah, a fruit basket. Jesus.   
  
Putting the thing on the table by the wall, Fraser continued, "I believe that on this side of the border it is considered respecting etiquette to bring fruits when one is making a sick-call. I'm afraid I fail to see the logic of it as - whilst taking considerable amounts of ascorbic acid can help preventing a person from becoming ill - it doesn't stimulate the healing process once the damage is done - at least not as directly as is commonly believed."  
  
It helped a little. Not that he was at ease with the world, himself or Fraser all of a sudden, but hearing the Mountie ramble about the benefits - or lack thereof - of vitamin C was reassuring. Fraser was nervous too. It gave him the courage and the voice to confess, "I'm not really ill, Fraser."  
  
"That possibility had occurred to me when I spoke to Francesca this morning," Fraser nodded. "The timing of your becoming indisposed - immediately after our conversation of yesterday evening - struck me as rather coincidental."  
  
Oh God, their conversation ...  
  
"I'm sorry about the things I said, Fraser. I was way out of line."  
  
"You were upset, Ray."  
  
Jesus. Was the guy trying to excuse him?  
  
"That's no excuse, Fraser. I said terrible things to you. And I'm sorry."  
  
"Ray." Earlobe-tug. "I don't understand. Judging by the anger you displayed last night, I would have thought you wanted to end our partnership. In fact, I came to say goodbye."  
  
Oh Jesus. Fuck, no.  
  
"Did you request a transfer?"  
  
"No. I didn't want to do so prematurely. Against better knowledge, I hoped ..." Fraser seemed to think that an eyebrow-rub would explain things better than words could.  
  
Thank God.   
  
But the Mountie was still standing in the middle of the room, like he could leave any minute.  
  
"Please sit down, Fraser."  
  
"Yes, Ray. Thank you."  
  
It was a mistake. He had thought that he would feel better with Fraser sitting in a chair - one step further away from leaving - but he didn't. He couldn't bear his partner's proximity.  
  
Fraser had pulled the rocking chair rather close to the bed. He was sitting on the edge of the seat, leaning forward, his legs spread to prevent himself from toppling over, his hands resting on his knees. If Ray turned his head he had a perfect view on the inseams of Fraser's jeans - all the way up. It turned him on. Well, it didn't feel as pleasurable as arousal usually did, but it was either that or he was scared stiff. Shit. He couldn't speak. He couldn't look.   
  
"Fraser", he tried to say, but it was more of a croak.  
  
The good, considerate, resourceful Mountie regarded him with a worried look on his face and inquired if he needed a glass of water.  
  
Ray nodded, and when Fraser stood and moved to the sink, he quickly left the bed and put on his bathrobe over his pajamas. When Fraser returned with the glass, he was sitting on the edge of the bed.  
  
He drank the water, his teeth clattering against the glass while Fraser sat himself. The Mountie's face adopted that worried expression again. It could very well be the look of a father watching his severely ill child. Jesus.  
  
Ray couldn't possibly steady his jaws. Fraser was leaning very far forward. His knees were almost touching Ray's. His face was so close. And his body seemed to radiate warmth like a furnace.  
  
He was saved by his sister. Sort of.  
  
She entered the room with a bowl. "Chicken soup. Ma made it for you," she stated, looking directly at Fraser.  
  
The Mountie looked confused.   
  
"Thanks, Frannie," Ray said, waving her away.  
  
Putting the bowl on the table, she scowled at him, then turned to Fraser to say very pleasantly, "Ma wants to know if you'll be joining us for dinner."  
  
Shit. This was not what he'd had in mind; Fraser dining downstairs with the family, him having chicken soup one floor up. They needed to _talk_ , goddammit.  
  
He shook his head quickly. Frannie scowled again, but Fraser said, "Francesca, please thank your mother for her kind invitation, but I believe that Ray and I need to talk first."  
  
Frannie frowned. Fuck, couldn't Fraser have made something up?  
  
Well, what damage there was, it was already done. Ray sighed. "Could you please leave us alone, Francesca?"  
  
"Sure," she said, heading out in a huff, slamming the door behind her.  
  
So now they were alone. They could have their talk in complete privacy. Oh God.  
  
Ray stalled by locking the door. It wasn't just stalling; you never knew what excuse Frannie would think of to get another chance to feast her eyes on Fraser.  
  
And who could blame her? The man looked gorgeous. He had noticed this before of course, he must have. He just never _felt_ it. But now he did. God, he did.  
  
And it confused him. Not so much because it meant that he was an alleged pervert; strangely enough, that didn't bother him right now. Because, really, how could he be drawn to that package of beauty, intelligence and virtue and call it a perversion?  
  
But he didn't want to jeopardize the partnership. And he didn't know if it was better to tell Fraser how he felt or to not mention it. And if he decided to try to keep it a secret, could he honestly hope to succeed?  
  
He sat down on the bed again. Carefully - not to touch Fraser. He took a deep breath, opened his mouth, and declared, "I did some thinking." Yeah, euphemisms always were a good start.  
  
"About us." Shit. Great move, starting with an understatement and then lurching forward to stick your head in the proverbial hangman's noose.  
  
"Our partnership?" Fraser inquired softly.  
  
"Yeah. Amongst other things."  
  
"Other things, Ray?" Eyebrow-rub.   
  
Ray looked at the poor, mangled eyebrow and almost put out his hand to sooth its pain.  
  
This was it, wasn't it. It all boiled down to this: his desire to touch Fraser.  
  
It didn't repulse him. In fact, it gave him the courage to decide that he needed to know if Fraser wanted to be touched.  
  
"The things you said in the car yesterday, Benny."  
  
Apparently Fraser didn't register the tone (which was very gentle) or the use of his first name. There was a look of panic on his face for a moment, then it adopted the stony expression that meant he was hiding how he felt. Very dispassionately, he said, "I will never again bother you by mentioning my inclinations, Ray."  
  
"That's not what I meant, Benny." He waited a moment, trying to smile encouragingly. `Tell me. How do you feel about me?'  
  
"You're an excellent detective, Ray," Fraser said after a beat. "You're a good man. I have often envied you for your ability to express your emotions freely, even if sometimes I regretted that you are so easily enraged, as patience is prudent in some situations. I feel alive around you. I wouldn't know what to do in Chicago - how to behave, how to fit in - without you. I consider you my best friend, Ray."  
  
Jeez, what a beautiful declaration of love. Only, knowing Fraser, it probably was just a declaration of friendship. Still, he said, "I consider you mine, Fraser."  
  
It raised his pulse to realize that this sentence, taken isolated and not as a response, expressed exactly how he felt. He wanted to consider Fraser his. Period.  
  
He felt caught, but it was impossible to judge from Fraser's expression if he was in reality. The Mountie looked ... what? Puzzled? Relieved? Disappointed?  
  
"So you do not wish to end our partnership, Ray?" Fraser inquired.  
  
"No, I don't."  
  
Clearly puzzled look now. "But ... I don't understand. Yesterday after our conversation, I was convinced that I repulsed you."  
  
And rightfully so. Somehow it surprised him that the recollection of the scene in the car was so vivid - even though it shouldn't, as it happened just 24 hours ago.  
  
"Yeah. You scared the hell out of me. And then I did some thinking and I scared the hell out of myself."  
  
"I'm sorry to hear that, Ray."  
  
His heart started to race. If Fraser was indeed "sorry", then what he was feeling was a one-way thing. The mere anticipation of this possibility hurt beyond belief. But he had to know. He hadn't come this far to stop now.  
  
"Are you, Fraser?" He waited, but not long, as he didn't need to allow himself to develop second thoughts about his amount of courage. "Don't you get what I'm trying to say?"  
  
Pause. Very aggravating pause.  
  
"I do not dare to hope," Fraser said softly.  
  
The tremendous relief that washed over Ray made him feel giddy for a moment. Then he pulled himself together and said as calmly as he could muster, "Do you want to touch me, Benny?"  
  
There was no response; no movement, no words. The blood left Ray's face. "You don't?"  
  
"It's not ... I'm afraid that if I do, I won't know where to draw the line."  
  
Fuck, what a hot thing to say. But Ray got it. As much as he was craving Benny's touch, he wasn't ready for 180 pounds (or so) of Mountie jumping his bones.  
  
"Okay. How about I touch you instead?"  
  
Fraser sat very still, and he didn't say anything, but by the look in his eyes Ray knew he was right to assume that there was a "yes" radiating from the Mountie's body.  
  
So he took Benny's left hand in his own two. The touch felt electric. He had touched Benny before, but never this deliberate. Never had it felt like the first step on a path he was determined to follow.   
  
He caressed the hand and kneaded it a little. It was a broad hand, warm and strong and beautiful. He raised it to his lips. Looking up he saw Benny's eyes concentrated on his face.  
  
The Mountie was breathing a little unevenly. Ray couldn't help smiling against the back of Benny's hand as he heard his partner's breath hitch at the touch of his lips. He moved a little lower, kissing Benny's fingers one by one.  
  
He lifted the hand so that he was looking at the palm. He kissed the inner side of Benny's wrist, licked it, took in Benny's taste and smell. He had never consciously smelled Fraser before, but he recognized his scent right away. It was a great scent. And Benny's taste matched it perfectly.  
  
His tongue drew circles on Benny's wrist. The Mountie gasped. Ray took it as an encouragement and let his tongue trail upwards, over the lines of Benny's palm, sideways to the ball of his thumb, then up to lick the length of each finger. He kissed the pads of each tip, before he selected the middle finger and started to suck on it gently.  
  
Benny moaned. God, he looked hot. His eyes weren't blue or grey anymore, they were almost black. Ray added a little tongue swirling to his sucking. He knew full well what he was mimicking, and he could tell that Fraser knew it too.  
  
"Do you like this, Benny?" he asked, lowering the hand.  
  
"It's ... It's excruciating, Ray."  
  
"Would you like some more?"  
  
"No. Please, I'd like to touch you, Ray. I want to kiss you."  
  
He felt tense all of a sudden. So far, it had been him doing things to Fraser. It hadn't been mutual. It had been about Fraser's arousal, not his. He had been kept out of range.   
  
Then he realized this was a lame excuse; the stiffness he felt against his belly told him so.  
  
And he wanted to be kissed by Fraser. He wanted to taste that beautiful mouth.  
  
"Yeah," he said. "Okay."  
  
He didn't move, but Benny took his hands and leaned in. Ray mimicked the move and they met in an electric collision that started to melt him immediately. Benny's lips on his, Benny's tongue stroking his teeth and palate, the slickness of Benny's mouth filled him with joy - and regret that he could have had this months ago if he hadn't been so goddamn blind.  
  
When Benny broke the kiss he was panting. It made up for the loss of contact, to which Ray would have protested vehemently if he'd had the oxygen. Benny. Out of breath by his doing. He liked that.   
  
He recognized the look in the Mountie's eyes though. Not here, not now, it was saying with great regret.  
  
And Fraser was right. Even though Ray knew he no longer would object to 180 pounds of Mountie jumping his bones, this happening under the Vecchio roof while the family was dining downstairs would not be a good idea.  
  
"I suggest that we have a date you and I, tomorrow night at your place," he said.  
  
"That is an excellent plan, Ray," Fraser responded. His smile was so radiant it hurt.  
  
Ray swallowed. Over the course of time he had come to believe that Mounties didn't do happy. But apparently, when Italian Chicago cops - when self liberated Italian Chicago cops entered the picture, they did. It was a scary but magnificent responsibility. He could feel it in his chest, this fierce determination to do whatever it would take to make Benny happy.  
  
"Ray." Benny's voice said it all.  
  
Ray let his thumb trace the shape of the beautiful mouth that had uttered his name with such hope and warmth.  
  
I love you.   
  
He didn't say it aloud. But he would tomorrow.   
  
END  
  


  
 

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End Faggot by Marcella Polman 

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